


He Walks On Fog

by PendersleighInGloom



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Is this technically an AU?, Skeleton Island, sea gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19146760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PendersleighInGloom/pseuds/PendersleighInGloom
Summary: The Romans believed you died twice: once when your mortal body perishes, and truly, when your name is dead on the people's lips"It must have been a very poetic death, yet — he is not dead."Silver and Flint are lost to myth. They are kept alive only by the power of their stories, then a force stronger. On Skeleton Island, Silver and Flint become gods





	He Walks On Fog

**Author's Note:**

> “I will stand here with you, for an hour, a day, a year, while you find a way to accept this outcome so that we might leave here together.”

Silver’s arm trembles. A sheen of sweat works its way over his hands, loosening his grip on the trigger. He has said what he needed to say. Nothing left for him on the island but ghosts. Nothing left but ghouls and spectres. In some twisted humour, he thinks  —  Skeleton Island is aptly named.   


James shifts his weight. Heavy weariness has written itself into the corners of his eyes. It is resignation in its truest form. A bundle of yellowed leaves crumbles beneath his foot. Autumn is yet to come. 

Silver’s focus darts away into the greenery, on search for some phantom crewman, then returns, now sharper and with a more intent gaze fixed on James. He blurs. A wet cloud of daze upon his eyes and for a moment, two figures split from his body  — one a uniformed sailor, the other wiping black blood from his fingers. McGraw and Flint have come to light, at last. 

And Silver stops, for a moment, sees these apparitions, sees the past merge to the future before his eyes. He sees the truth. James’ truth. McGraw’s truth. Flint’s truth. His own truth. He is all too aware of the sweat on his palm. The stench gunmetal is only made worse by it. Slowly, he steadies his arm, the barrel fixed upon James’ torso, an inch above his heart. Perhaps Silver does not want him to die after all. The words echo through the thicket.

_ Stand with you … an hour… a year… find a way to accept this … we leave here together. _

Silver stops. Could their fates be so entwined? Both Silver and Flint were fabrications, facades, personas. Borne from darkness only to find the light, and fearful of the night since. The pistol clicks. He lowers his arm. James appears relieved, Silver can see it in the lines of his mouth, it is set in the curve of his jaw. 

A bird flies overhead, screeching to signal to its flock. It is the only sound in the deep forest. Its black plume is a stark contrast from the grey sky. A bleak scene. Another squawk. The bird waits. It squawks again. The flock never joins. They nest on a different tree. The bird perches on a branch above Silver’s head and stays silent. 

Silver moves his gaze down from the branch, forces it, rather, to look James in the eye. There is an unspoken tension lingering in the air. The edge of James’ lip curls ever so slightly, a subtle smile. He must think Silver has chosen the right path. Silver reaches for his holster, about to tuck away the gun then  —  _ Madi _ . Silver freezes where he stands. He must ensure her safety, he is sworn to it. Better he be scorned than she be dead. He takes the tip of the pistol gently from his belt. James must sense the change in the air.

“No,” he hisses. The word is forced from his throat. 

The barrel is aimed at him again, with a newfound intensity. This time, there is no denying it will strike deep in his heart. A cool breeze rustles through the trees.

“No,” he begs, “John, don’t-“

“You know what to say.” He is calm, bringing his finger to rest on the trigger. “As always,” he calls, cold, cocking the pistol, searching for an answer.

The silence stops James in his tracks. His face is gaunt and wraith-like. His eyes are dead. He breathes. He shudders.  _ After all this time, to die like this. _ He swallows. For the first time, Silver sees the hopelessness on his face. James’ voice is quiet but still strong when he responds. He knows the words he must speak all too well.

“To traitors,” he all but whispers.

James closes his eyes. 

Silver fires.

The birds scatter.

 

_ I will stand here with you, for an hour, a day, a year, while you find a way to accept this outcome so that we might leave here together. _

_ Find a way to accept this outcome so that we might leave here together. _

_ We might leave here together. _

_ We leave together. _

 

Silver opens his eyes. The gun-smoke burns. But still, he must see. He must see James’ body. He expects it to be a bloody thing, a dead thing, an idol reduced to nothing. Small and powerless. So unlike the man.

When the smoke clears, James still stands. 

_ You can kill ten-thousand men, but never a single legend. _

Silver steps closer. James does too. Silver takes his hand, with hesitation. He looks deep into his eyes. “What are you?”

There is bitterness in his voice when he flinches away and responds, “What are  _ you? _ ” 

The crystal blue of the ocean crashes over the rocks. It crashes over jagged stone and muddy sand. It comes down as rain onto his head and sweeps his hair in front of his eyes.

Silver’s brows furrow. There is a red pain in his chest. He falls to the ground, heaving, a hand clutching at his heart. It spills out of his chest, out of where the hole in James’ was meant to be. He watches in horror as the blood spills onto the dead undergrowth, pours out onto fallen twigs and twisting ferns. He screams, louder, but his strength has left him. His heart forces itself against his chest. It will burst through at any moment. A white film glazes the fleshy muscle. Silver glances at it and his sick coats the edge of a nearby rock. The pounding against his chest grows harder and he feels his skin growing thin. With a last heave, his heart sloshes out onto a bed of wet green leaves and rain-soaked soil. It is black. Poisoned. He whimpers at the sight. He cannot bear to look at the cavity in his chest. James looks down at him in some apathetic pity, turns away, and leaves. He makes a trail to the bluff. The leather of his boots are the last Silver sees before the world runs black.

It is night when Silver joins him, overlooking the water. A small cove lies beneath them. Rocks scatter out to become sand at sea. The pain has subsided. He is still not certain what it was. It must have been a very poetic death, yet — he is not dead. Before he can ask, James begins.

“Thomas spoke of this, once.” He turns to face Silver. His skin looks a gauzy pallor in the moonlight. He gazes back out to sea. “A malady, a curse, a blessing — he thought all three. Tales of the gods. I was unsure, thought it a thing of myth only. But here it is, in truth, and not a world could deny it,” 

“A world so keen on denying you no longer has the power to,” his words are tired and unsteady, “You must find it ironic, in a way,”

“I do. But it is some Greek tragedy. I can feel it even now — I am bound to a half-life. Some strange thought that I will live forever, while my mortal body lies trapped to this island.” He gestures to the expanse of forest behind them. “Flint died here. And a spirit cannot leave its resting place, nor a myth leave the minds of its listeners. It is why you are alive with me. Long John Silver must live on. Fate demands it. Your story is irreversibly intertwined with mine. My tale birthed your legend. And the thought sickens me. They will live together, dance on tongues together, and at eternity, they will die together.” He approaches Silver, and swallows harsh. “This is our destiny. Never again will I see the Nassau sands nor the English sky. I suppose I have you to thank for that,”

He turns and leaves, without a further word. James’ retreating back is the last he sees of him for years. 

Silver grows bone-thin over the months, baiting food with the last of his energy and realises, when he is spent — he cannot die. So he lies, the sand in his hair and eyes, scratching at his face, that he fought off wild rodents, wrangled fish, hurled rocks at birds for nothing. It is enough to bring tears to his eyes, if he still had tears to cry. 

The next he sees of James is by an open fire, warming his hands and cooking a stew. Silver wants to approach. He can smell the food from where he stands. He has not eaten for a year. James senses him before he can speak, With a glare and a grunt, he growls at Silver. His sword glints in the moonlight. Silver gathers the rest of his energy and runs back to a tree that has sheltered him from the elements. He will sleep beneath it tonight, as he has done for years before. 

One summer night, Silver trips on a branch and a rock tears through his stomach. It is pain beyond what he has ever known. He whimpers into the crook of his elbow as he waits to sleep or to die, whichever comes first. He wakes the next morning, blood dried on a deep gash. It is then he knows — as long as Long John Silver’s legend lives, he can never die.

Over the years, Silver counts the ships that pass by; tens, hundreds. He counts them all. He sees the ships that come to the island enraptured by the tale of the dread Captain Flint and Long John Silver, seeking some token of their stories. He sees wooden ships at first, barnacled but steady, with canvas sails cracking in the wind. The ships he knows. He sees Bones, back for the treasure, and old crewmen. Excitement-addled adventurers, searching for a new story to retell. Always people, lowly people, trotting about on the island. Then, as he stands to gaze to the ocean, for decades and centuries, hulking beasts emerge, made from metals, sword-steel, with great clouds drifting from tubes on deck. He wonders what James would think. The memory of him is so buried in his mind he rarely thinks of it in anything but dreams.

The last day, the day the tale would die, Silver lies himself down on a pyre. A legend dead in smoke. A beautiful ending. Ready for death. As he strikes the fire to life, lights the dry brush, and closes his eyes, he long awaits the darkness to wash over him. It never comes. 

That night, he finds James by the cove, scrubbing a stain from his shin. He leaves his torch leaned up against the limestone walls.

“Why didn’t I die? ”

James stills. He has not heard Silver’s voice in years. The crash of the waves echoes on the damp sea walls. Slowly, he stands, leaving his washcloth on the rocks, walks to Silver, a sad smile on his lips.

“Nassau makes men into legends. Skeleton Island turns legends into gods,”

With that, he takes a torch and leaves through the tunnels, his back fading in the darkness. 

**Author's Note:**

> All kudos, comments, and feedback are greatly appreciated. Writing this took the last few of my midnights, so I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to chat about anything Black Sails, my tumblr is pendersleigh-in-gloom. 
> 
> \- D.


End file.
